


Wherein Winona helps Pike get comfortable with his new plumbing

by kayliemalinza



Series: Rambleverse [52]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Kayliemalinza's Rambleverse, Other, Pike's Reclaimed Captaincy (Rambleverse Timeline), Sexswap, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/957811">Pike is temporarily endowed with breasts and a vagina.</a> That kind of thing just happens in space, ok, and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/615494">Winona has experience with waking up as the wrong sex</a>, so she offers to help him out. Pike, despite his better judgment, accepts.</p><p>Teaser: Chris discarded jealousy years ago but still, he wonders what that kind of arousal feels like. Functionally, it doesn't matter. He's learned to read his partner's cues and play along, present but unaffected, like participating in another culture's religious ritual. He's grown comfortable and skilled in his habits, clinging to them for good reasons, but this strange, distorted body of his is a new variable that he must investigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherein Winona helps Pike get comfortable with his new plumbing

**Author's Note:**

> The links in the summary go to stories in the same universe which illuminate the specifics of this particular brand of sexswap, but it is not necessary to read them first. Spoilery trigger warning in notes at the end.
> 
> Warning for cissexism/gender essentialism on Winona's part, and some ableist language (imbecile, idiot, crazy, etc.)
> 
> ETA: (4/11/2014) title and summary have been revised to remove cissexist language. sorry it took so long.

There is a moment during Winona's slow slide in when Chris nearly throws her off. He aborts the movement before it begins but Winona reads kinesics. She knows what just happened.

"Ok," she says slowly, taking her hands off his hips.

His knees are jammed right up to her armpits, calves cradling her ribcage in an iron-strong prep for a forced flip. He's telegraphing so badly a first year cadet would have noticed.

"Ok," Winona says again, wrapping her arms around his tense, bent-up legs as if she's giving them a hug instead of preventing herself from being thrown off the bed. "Here's a tip, Chris. That would've hurt you a lot more than it hurt me," she says.

"Right," he says. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," she says. "Tonight is about you, ok?" She rubs at his thighs, digging in her fingertips to force the muscles to relax. "You're really tense," she announces.

"Yeah," is the safest thing Chris can say; it's not an apology and it's not a sarcastic comment about her skills of observation.

Winona looks at him as if she knows what was going through his mind but isn't taking it personally. Good for her. "Come on, Chris," she murmurs, and presses on his knees.

He does his best to lower them but his best isn't much, not on edge the way he is. Deep-breathing is only partially effective. Part of him wishes she had withdrawn, but on the other hand the entry is the worst part; now that the phallus is settled inside of him, his internal muscles are beginning to adjust.

Finally, Winona seems satisfied with his progress and leans forward.

Chris chokes on a sudden groan and Winona smiles sweetly at him, pretending she hasn't just hooked his ankles into the small of her back. "Do you need a minute?" she asks.

 _No_ , Chris thinks. Considering the number of times he's been impaled in his career, this is nothing.

"Yes," Chris says. "Just—don't move, please." He sets his jaw against the sickly churn of plastic against internal membranes, the sudden pang of clitoral interest. He feels like his belly is going to drop out. That's nonsense, of course; his body has strict orders to remain relaxed, or to maintain some reasonable facsimile thereof.

"Alright," Winona says, and pats his hip. Helpful. "Feel free to enjoy the view, by the way," she says.

"Thanks for the invitation," he answers. It would be polite to return the offer, probably, but he doesn't feel like giving her permission to look at the slopes and curves he's been ignoring. It feels more comfortable for her to take the liberty. He's used to that, at least.

Winona bites her lip, half-smiling. "Do you want to touch me?"

"Sure," says Chris, and tamps down on the sudden resentment. Intellectually, he trusts Winona to realize that he is not the sexual imbecile he is currently presenting himself to be. He's not a Kirkian Casanova by any means but he is reasonably well-educated. He knows how to touch a woman.

He begins at her knees because they're closest to his fingers. He reaches back to trace the lines of her calves, folded up tightly against her thighs as she's kneeling on the bed. His own thighs are blocking the curve of her hips, but her waist is accessible. It cuts in neatly from her ribcage. Above that, nearly hidden by the rounded underside of her left breast, is a starburst patch of scar tissue. He presses his thumb to it gingerly and slides the rest of his fingers along the rib swooping out.

"Do you like my souvenir?" she asks, and flexes her torso so he can feel the spongy texture of prosthetic bone beneath the skin.

"Is it still blue?" he asks. This is the sort of thing he might ask if they were alone in his ready room, fully clothed. A hair too intimate to be small talk, but easily shared with a comrade in the service. He doesn't want to know Winona's medical details, particularly, but he needs something to distract him.

Winona shrugs. "It's faded a lot," she says. "My doctors check it every six months and when it's completely white, they'll know to replace it. Kind of like a toothbrush," she adds, grinning like her mutilation is nothing but an off-color joke.

Chris wonders if that's how she really thinks about it, or if she's deflecting. Her son, certainly, didn't take the injury so lightly. "I apologize if I'm getting too personal," he says.

Winona laughs, a sweet honest noise that makes her collarbones quiver. "Chris," she says admonishingly, "I think we're allowed to have a personal discussion. We're having sex, after all."

"Right," he says, then, "You're very beautiful." She must be used to that, of course; her body has relaxed with age but holds its shape well enough, lean bones embellished with muscles like walnut shells. The overhead lights are throwing wonderful shadows.

Winona smiles. "Thank you." She begins to rock against him as gently as possible, he's sure. In certain aspects of this encounter she has been admirably polite.

Chris is still unnerved and skittish so he concentrates on the familiar: the slide of her thighs beneath his, fingers pulling gently on his hipbones, the crinkly intersection of dissimilar pubic hair.

Winona has gone dark in the eyes. A flush arrows up from her belly to suffuse across her breasts and her face matches: two bright smears across her cheeks and lips plumper than usual between.

Chris discarded jealousy years ago but still, he wonders what that kind of arousal feels like. Functionally, it doesn't matter. He's learned to read his partner's cues and play along, present but unaffected, like participating in another culture's religious ritual. He's grown comfortable and skilled in his habits, clinging to them for good reasons, but this strange, distorted body of his is a new variable that he must investigate. That does not negate the fact that this encounter is top-tier in Chris' extensive history of terrible ideas. He knew it would be even before Winona had finished shaking his hand at dinner, and yet here he is. Either Kirks inspire bad decisions, or Chris is an idiot. Or both.

"Chris," Winona says, smiling like she thinks she can make him feel things just by saying his name. "I think we forgot something." She slides out of him, which Chris doesn't expect to be as disturbing as it is. The dildo presses against an interior wall and causes a sensation that is... It is. He doesn't know if it feels good or bad, but he can't ignore it. Then she's all the way out and that's worse, somehow, like he's being depressurized by a broken airlock.

Winona glides forward to align her torso with his. The press of their breasts together sends an uneasy wobble through his belly and she's too close, her face blocking out the light and her arms caging his, but she's smiling and her hair falls pleasantly across his collarbone. "This is my favorite part," she murmurs, and kisses him.

Chris likes this part, too, so he lets her slip him some tongue. Winona kisses with the same sense of illicit victory but she isn't rowdy like Jim; her mouth is prudent and clever. Her body curves amiably along his and sparks some buried sense of mammalian consanguinity. He wonders if they look like the dogs do at the ranch, sleeping in piles with their noses tucked into armpits, paws and tails tangled up. He pats her flank and Winona chuffs through her nose like she wants to laugh but won't stop kissing to do it.

Winona punctuates the end of the kiss with a faint bite to his lower lip. "Do you feel a little better?" she asks. She's snuck her hand down to nudge at the base of his clit and it feels objectively good, so he nods.

"Are you going to...." he doesn't finish the question but gestures at the dildo, slick blood-red and impervious, bobbing between her thighs.

Winona gazes at him with an expression that is kind and not judging, and which Chris sort of hates. "Chris, I'm not sure going right back to penetration is such a good idea," she says, and bites her lip. It's the Kirk version of an apology, the one where the hidden message is that _It's not me, it's you_. "We don't have to do this so fast."

Yes, they do. They tried heavy petting at the beginning but he wouldn't unwind: she tried to fondle his breasts and he cut out his elbows involuntarily; she stroked the pool of his belly but he twisted to throw off her hand and kept twisting when she trickled her fingers down his back. He decided, eventually, that she may touch his legs, and they ended up on the bed.

Winona's tone, the set of her shoulders, even the way that she tilts her head are carefully neutral: "Maybe you just bit off more than you could chew."

Chris laughs, sharp and humorless. Yes, his body is disobedient: his center of balance is completely off and his legs go wayward when they feel like it. This time the problem is the shape of his hipbones and the angle of his thighs. The last time it was a crèche of saw-tooth maggots gnawing tunnels through vertebrae. The time before that it was a shattered patella and a leg scraped raw to the bone. Chris doesn't care about the details. He inhabits his body without mercy and sooner or later, it will do what he wants.

He digs his heels into Winona's back, grabs the dildo, and shoves it in.

"Holy _shit!_ " Winona says. She topples to her elbows, twisting to the side before she cracks her jaw on Chris' head. She squirms back but Chris is digging his knees into her sides again and his heels into the backs of her thighs.

"You crazy bastard," Winona mutters into his shoulder. "I was warned about you, you know."

"Maybe you bit off more than you could chew," Chris says. He's struggling to get his breath back. The entry didn't hurt that much but it's a different pain than he's encountered before; it goes right to his gut, intangible and gross.

Winona makes a noise that might be a laugh. "I wasn't trying to buck you up!" she cries. "Sometimes you really do just have to go slow. Seriously, Chris, let me up." The bumps of her spine skitter beneath the skin as she struggles against him.

Chris hadn't realized he was holding her down like that; his hands clamped involuntarily, one on her arm and one on the back of her neck. He moves them to her sides instead, arguably embracing instead of clutching, but he's still not letting her pull out. He won't go through that again if he doesn't have to.

Winona pulls herself upright and roots around for balance on her knees. "Ok," she says, touching his thighs, partly to grope, and partly to keep herself from falling again. "Listen, I don't want you to think that orgasm is the goal here, because it's not."

"I'm pretty goal-oriented," Chris says.

"That's what I'm saying," Winona answers. Her belly is invitingly soft but her ribs flash and founder beneath the skin as she moves. "It's different for women then with men. Sometimes women just can't orgasm and that's ok. The goal is to enjoy yourself."

Chris suspects they are operating with incompatible definitions of "enjoyment." He has sex the way other people brush their teeth: not because it's fun, particularly, but because it's healthy and he gets itchy if he doesn't. There are a hundred things he would enjoy more, like eating a fine steak, or taking a shower with water. If he doesn't orgasm, he won't know that anything has happened at all.

"Come on," he says instead of answering. He lodges his knees below her shoulder blades, curls his ankles around her ass, and rocks her forward. Winona sighs but follows cooperatively, and they fall into a rhythm: he pulls her in with his legs; she falls back when he releases her, and then he pulls her in again.

Winona watches his face as he fucks himself on her. She probably doesn't mean it as a sign of aggression—her eyes are soft—but Chris feels shame anyway when he must lower his gaze. He neutralizes her; she's not a person but a composite of a thin lower lip, the oval shadow above her chin, honey-tipped hair curling around her jaw.

Then Winona shifts her knees and the next thrust hits him good.

"Oh," Chris says, not a word but a noise expelled on an involuntary breath.

"It's thrilling, isn't it?" Winona murmurs.

Chris would not describe it that way. There are sparks skittering along the inchoate pathways of his pelvis, and perhaps that is exciting, but mostly it feels like his bladder is splitting open. He breathes in advance of the next thrust, exhales on the next, and watches Winona's belly flex and quiver.

After some interminable minutes the sensation transmutes from not-pain into something vaguely nice, but Chris is struck with terror that he'll be stuck on a plateau, chafed and slightly bored. Usually he can proceed to orgasm without an overage of mental involvement but his body is fragile and tepid right now, infested with oblique angles and pads of fat where they should not be. The sharp corners of _Enterprise_ hurt more than they used to. His knees ache where they are pressed too tightly against Winona's ribs.

 _Ignore that_ , Chris tells himself. He focuses on a decades-old fantasy: the Orion dance of seduction. The slave girl du jour is overtly luscious, a simulacrum of desire flaunting herself in some blurry, palatial courtyard. There are onlookers there, suggestions of beings gathered to watch the gleam of green skin, but Chris is not one of them. He is outside his own fantasy, a non-corporeal eye, untouchable.

The vision feathers at the edges; Winona is distracting him.

"C'mon, Chris, you're doing really good," Winona is saying in a steady stream of encouragement. "Come on, baby, that's it."

"Shut up," Chris snaps.

She does, and slinks her shoulders away from him with a startled cut-glance. It pleases him to see her wary like that— _You're not the sex goddess you think you are_ —but he's being rude. He amends it by stroking his palms up her arms and squeezing the back of her neck.

The non-apology works tolerably well; Winona shrugs off the insult and cocks an appraising glance at him. "How about you slack the reins a little, Chris, and let me fuck you properly?" She smiles as if she'll take a no as well as a yes, and perhaps that's why Chris complies. He loosens his legs and Winona picks up where he left off, jutting into him with more finesse than he could manage but just as forcefully.

She leans forward to fit their mouths together, miraculously without clacking teeth. She does nip him, probably by accident, but that's helpful. It causes his heartrate to increase familiarly, comfortably: the blood rush of jumping his horse over a fence, or diving cleanly from his uncle's dock into the spring-cold lake. It's not the stuttery pulse of crouching in the dark and waiting for that mysterious sound to turn into a beast.

When Winona curves closer against him Chris edges away, still disconcerted by the softness of their chests together, but she takes no notice. She grabs for his elbow and walks her fingers up to his hand instead, murmuring, "Touch yourself." Together their hands slither to the nub erupting between the stretched-thin skin of his labia. Chris palms himself, grazing with the pads of three fingers, and finds that no other effort is required; the jacked alterations of legs and torsos jostle him adequately.

Chris lets out a moan without meaning to and raises his head off the pillow to tangle their tongues. It's as if he's broken through a veil, or coaxed an engine to ignite— _All systems go_. The back of his throat twinges with the sudden flush of adrenaline and he leaves her mouth to burrow his face in the welcoming crook of her neck. He can taste the impending orgasm, feel it yield between his teeth.

He knows from dire experience that if he loses concentration now it will all fizzle out, so Chris focuses again on his fantasy of the Orion. She dances in nudeness and firelight, guttering like some plasticine flame, and Chris gutters, too. He jolts Winona against him again and again _full speed ahead_ and his vulva draws further into itself, tightening like a screw, until it hits the critical point. He keeps on relentlessly, forcing Winona to fuck him through the convulsions until his muscles are unbearably taut all over and he can shudder no more.

Any noise he might have made is lost in her flesh.

"Oh my God," Winona murmurs. "That was—" she huffs hotly beneath his ear and rubs her palm in long, firm strokes over the topography of his belly and hips. "Chris, that was one hell of a ride."

Chris mumbles something unintelligible and peels away his aggregate limbs. His mouth is, bizarrely, covered in spit, and he wipes it with the back of his hand as the hand drops to the bed.

Winona pulls out and he feels vacant, leaky, cognizant of the caverns inside himself. Winona seems to understand; she clambers carefully to the side and draws his legs together, squeezing them demurely at the knees.

Chris wrestles the corner of his mouth into half of a wan smile; it's the best 'thank you' he can muster up at the moment.

Winona beams in response and snuggles up to Chris with an arm slung over his belly and a hand curled up in the foreign scoop of his waist. "That was awesome. _You_ were awesome." She emphasizes the pronoun with a butterfly kiss to the side of his neck, followed by a less-innocent nip at his jaw. "Everyone should be as brave about their first orgasm as you were."

Chris doesn't think he was particularly brave—he certainly dithered far more than was necessary—but her voice is pure admiration, and settles over his skin as warm and thick as his favorite homespun sweater.

 _No wonder Jim Kirk is convinced that he's the best thing in the universe,_ thinks Chris.

Winona props herself up to study him. Her shoulder juts out, a smooth aberration amidst the leonine tangles of her hair. "Did you like it?" she asks.

Chris isn't sure. Only now, when his breathing is starting to even out and his brain has distanced itself from the myriad sensory assaults, can he begin to think about what just happened. He's a nap and a shower away from being able to construct a full analogy but he's grasping at some idea about accretion discs, orbs that circle endlessly, the principle of perturbation. Chris is thinking about tired stars that curl up to die and find themselves reborn instead, blasting outward with such force that they invent new atoms.

Whether or not they _like_ it is irrelevant.

"I think it hurt," he says finally, and is somewhat surprised to find this is true. He's still throbbing between the legs, sore inside and out.

Winona has been watching him. "Sometimes it does hurt," she says. She speaks with a careful lack of sympathy but strokes her fingers through his short-cropped hair. "I'll be gentler next time," she whispers, and rubs her thumb into the crease between his eyebrows as if she's indulging herself.

"Next time?" Chris gets out. His voice is gummed up and crackly but the distortion is a comfort. He can imagine that once his throat clears up he'll sound like himself again.

Winona is shifting away from him so she can unbuckle the straps from her thigh. "You don't really think I'm going to let you go so soon, do you?" she says casually, then tosses back a grin on the wrong side of wicked.

Chris' eyebrows climb up his forehead despite himself. "Should I be calling Security?" he asks. He keeps his tone light.

"Things might get a little crowded if you do that, but hey, it's your party," Winona says. She makes a noise of frustration and hauls herself up to fuss with the straps. "The left one always sticks," she complains.

Chris smiles, more relieved than he'd like to admit that the harness is being discarded. He lifts up his hand as far as he can, a paltry few trembling inches, and skates his fingertips across her skin. He's roused up enough strength to trace the curl of her hip when she twists to the side and he lets out a small, strangled noise.

"What's up?" she asks immediately. She glances at his face then follows his gaze to her ribs where his fingers are circling the discoloration in apology. "Oh, did I bruise? That happens a lot. One of these days I'll get a tan just so people will stop worrying so much."

Chris frowns at her. "Did I hurt you anywhere else?" he asks, fitting his fingers between the slots of her ribs and pulling her in. His exhaustion has slunk away like an unwanted dog, leaving him sluggish but capable.

Winona falters a split second too long before answering. "Don't worry about it, Chris. No, seriously—" She wrinkles her nose, knowing better than to resist when he grabs her arm and tugs her around to see her front. Deciding to make the best of the situation, she lays across his belly. She presses uncomfortably against his hipbone before she gets her elbow into a good position on the other side of his waist and leans on it.

Chris shifts in minute increments until they slot together. Winona is ghosting her fingers over his arm and shoulder, just short of tickling, but Chris ignores that as he continues his inspection.

"That one's not your fault," Winona says when he pokes at the grey smudge next to her belly button. "I bumped into a rotor sweep this morning." She sweeps her fingers down over the swell of his breast, casually as if he won't notice and without looking so she'll have plausible deniability if he does. After a moment or so of this she adds, "Well, it's sort of your fault. Your engineering section has a really weird floor plan, did you know that? Chris." Her voice goes serious. She grips his wrist before he can push her mass of hair away from her neck. "Don't freak out. It's going to look worse than it is."

Chris nods shortly in acknowledgment and shakes off her grip. The bite is nasty; red and purple pulse against each other in a perfect ring of broken capillaries.

"I'm sorry," Chris says.

Winona shrugs as if her body is a gift to be offered or loaned out with no concern for the condition of its return. Her body is like a sturdy tool or a child's favorite toy; it can be battered and soiled, maybe, but never ill-used. "It was what you had to do," she answers. "It was worth it."

Chris doesn't agree, and by this point in his life, he should know better. He has acted irresponsibly and visited the consequences upon innocent others. "Jim calls me a sadistic bastard," he says.

Winona rolls her eyes and snatches up Chris' hand to press a quick kiss to his knuckles. "Jim calls a lot of people a lot of things," she says dismissively. "It doesn't mean that—" she gets distracted by the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger and nuzzles at it before continuing. "It doesn't mean that you should get offended."

"He's an excellent judge of character," Chris points out. He tries to reacquire his hand but Winona resists, shoving her face into his palm. Chris over-extends his fingers in passive resistance.

Winona, unable to adequately burrow, looks at Chris from between his splayed out fingers and says, "You know he loves you, right?"

"Jim's not _in_ love with me, is he?" Chris asks.

"He loves you," Winona says again.

_I don't know what that means._

It occurs to Chris that he would slice the muscles from his thigh if Jim were hungry enough; he would lop off his feet at the ankles if Jim needed the bones. But Jim is always asking him for something he can't give, the dimensions of which he can barely understand. Chris can parrot the songs and quote the cathartic lines of classical films, but he realized long ago that his heart was a thing to pump blood and nothing more; he could not give it away or suffer it to break if he tried (and he did try, too many times; he is sorry for that.)

A fine emissary Chris is, cold to the spark of his species' greatness.

Winona burrows her face more cozily into his shoulder and curls her palm around the minnows of his ribs. "What are you thinking about?" she asks.

_Here lies Christopher Pike. In him, the bedrock of the human heart is made of silt._

"Nothing," Chris says.

Winona gives him the half-smile that Jim does sometimes, lenient and content enough, but with a hint of something Chris can't quite identify. Longing, maybe. "Fair enough," she says, and presses cozy and safe against him; skin to skin but no deeper.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for vivid description of uncomfortable sex and self-inflicted dub-con—i.e., Pike forces himself to have sex and does not enjoy it.


End file.
